Chapter Text
ACT I: ASCEND
It’s a Friday like any other. Regulus Arcturus Black walks into the Metropolitan Museum of Art just as the doors open, briefcase in tow. He knows exactly where he’s headed: straight through the Great Hall’s soaring columns, up the Grand Staircase, and left into the 19th and Early 20th Century European Paintings wing.
Another turn and he’s in Gallery 819, settling onto a bench, popping open his briefcase, and pulling out an almond croissant from Aux Merveilleux de Fred. It was a bit out of his way but worth it for one of the few proper croissants he's found in Manhattan. New York might have great bagels but their croissants have been average at best.
Maybe he's just a snob.
“Mornin',” comes a cheery voice, thick with a British countryside drawl. Regulus looks up sharply, immediately alert. His gaze lands on a man built like a redwood, hair and beard equally wild, a Met security badge reading Hagrid hangs from his neck.
"Good morning," he murmurs, offering a curt nod.
The man tilts his head, eyeing the pastry. “Yeh know food’s no' allowed in the galleries, don' yeh?”
For a second, Regulus debates a sharp retort, but the absurd earnestness of the man’s grin almost drags one from him as well. He softens, slipping into his best innocent act. “Could you make an exception?” He all but bats his eyelashes.
Hagrid looks around theatrically before leaning in with a conspiratorial wink, voice dropping to a stage whisper. “Reckon we can bend the rules, jus' this once. Won' tell if you don'.”
Regulus quirks an eyebrow, amused. He mimes zipping his lips shut.
“Here fer the haystacks, are yeh?”
A faint smile tugs at the corner of Regulus’s mouth. “Would hate to leave New York without seeing them.”
Every time he's in the city, he finds himself here. Like some pilgrimage to the shrine of his own memory. Sometimes he thinks if he sits here long enough, he'll slip through time and find that somewhere in the space time continuum, two siblings are still on this bench, giggling at stories about farmers and golden fields that never end.
“Strange thing, that,” the man chuckles. “Mos' folk come fer the lilies.” He jerks his chin toward the painting.
Morning light pours through the vaulted skylight, casting warm gold across the water lilies' cool blues and greens.
Regulus spares the piece a casual glance and shrugs. “It’s nice,” he says simply, before turning back to the haystacks.
“Nice?” the man echoes, scandalized. “Thousands o' people come here every day ter have a look, and ye don' even bat an eye! Ye know how much that thing’s worth?”
And he does. He’s done the math.
“What can I say, I like my haystacks.”
***
It’s a Saturday like no other. Sirius Orion Black Potter walks into the Metropolitan Museum of Art long after the doors have been closed to the public. Gallery 819 is sealed off like a crime scene, (because it is). A painting has been stolen after all, and not just any painting—Monet’s Bridge over a Pond of Water Lilies.
“Yo, you heard? FBI’s taking over this shit.” An NYPD officer stands against a wall across from a man Sirius assumes is a detective, judging from the badge clipped to his belt and lack of uniform.
The man rolls his eyes, voice low and rough. “Don’t get me started. Last thing we need is a pissing contest with the Bureau.” He takes a sip of his coffee, grimacing at the taste.
The museum buzzes around them with controlled chaos: officers weaving between floodlights and evidence markers, radios squawking, and rubber soles squeaking on polished wooden floors. Sirius pinches the bridge of his nose, a feeble attempt to drain the ache from behind his eyes. The flight from London still clings to him, a fog of exhaustion making every voice reverberate through his skull like a jackhammer. His coat feels too hot. The smell of hours-old coffee and dry air makes his stomach roll.
“Lupin!” a voice calls, pulling Sirius’s attention from the acid churning in his stomach. He watches a woman in a tailored black pantsuit march with purpose toward a man who has just entered the room.
When she reaches him, she gestures toward a familiar face. “This is Mr. Hollein, the museum’s director,” she introduces.
The newcomer shrugs out of a dark windbreaker. “Special Agent Remus Lupin.” The two shake hands briskly.
British.
Interesting. It’s rare to run into a Brit in the FBI. He hangs back just far enough to eavesdrop. Remus Lupin speaks quietly, his tone polite but firm.
“What do we have?” Remus asks.
“Hacked security, looped cameras, upside down frame. You know the drill.” The woman replies.
Remus sighs. “Right. Let Interpol know.”
“Already on it.”
“How’d he get in this time?”
She turns to him with barely contained amusement, her eyes glinting with glee, visible even from Sirius’s current angle. “A ‘Greco-Asian equine statue’.” Her fingers form air quotes.
A laugh bursts out of Sirius before he can stop it, drawing the group’s attention. He locks eyes with Remus and something sharp zips through his chest.
Christ.
Remus narrows his eyes. “Care to share what’s so funny with the class?”
Sirius clears his throat. “A ‘Greco-Asian equine statue’?” he repeats, air quoting like the woman he’s mentally dubbed Ms. Pantsuit. “I mean…come on. A literal Trojan Horse? You gotta admit it’s a little funny.” He emphasizes little with a narrow space between his thumb and forefinger.
“Well, then someone has a sick sense of humor,” Mr. Hollein grumbles before stepping forward to shake his hand. “Thank you for coming here so quickly.”
“Happy to help, sir,” Sirius responds, automatically slipping into his best professional act.
Remus and Ms. Pantsuit exchange a confused look as Mr. Hollein guides Sirius closer to the group.
“Agent Lupin, this is Mr. Potter, on behalf of the Weasley Group. They underwrote the Monet, and when news of the theft broke, the board insisted on sending their own. Mr. Potter’s one of—if not the best—when it comes to this sort of thing.”
Judging by the muscle ticking in his jaw, Agent Lupin isn’t thrilled. He crosses his arms, narrowing his eyes. “So you’re the bounty hunter, huh?”
Sirius shrugs. “Bounty hunter, insurance investigator…it’s all the same, as long as it keeps my clients from cutting a hundred-million-dollar cheque.”
His voice turns cool. “Funny. I thought we were here to catch a thief.”
“Then we want the same thing…more or less.” Sirius tries to swallow his irritation. He gets it. He’d hate someone butting in on his job too.
“Listen, I’m not here to step on any toes. You know how to catch a criminal, and I know how to spot a fake. Plus, I have the connections to know if—and when—a highly coveted piece, like a Monet, is being sold on the black market. We’re on the same side here, Agent Lupin.”
Ms. Pantsuit turns to Remus, her tone resigned. “He’s right, Lupin. Like it or not, we need his expertise.”
A flicker of satisfaction ripples through Sirius. He resists the urge to puff out his chest in quiet triumph.
“So. May I?” Sirius gestures toward the gallery.
Remus sighs and steps aside. “Be my guest.”
A familiar thrill thrums under his skin as his grin sharpens. “Thanks. I’m dying to see how our friend pulled off a Trojan Horse.”
He knows it’s in poor taste, but God, does he love the puzzle of a heist. The elegance, the audacity, the invisible threads waiting to be tugged until everything unravels; it's exhilarating.
His boots echo as he strides into the gallery. His senses sharpen as he scans the space, eyes lingering on the raw, empty rectangle where the Monet should hang—the bare patch of wall like an open wound.
Despite his morbid fascination, the hush that follows a theft is always a little unsettling. The silence feels charged, like the room itself is holding its breath, waiting for justice. Sometimes he wishes the paintings could talk. Would Monet's Chrysanthemums weep for their stolen sister? Could they describe the thief—their height, their hands, or if they covered their face with a mask?
His gaze finds the Sunflowers, still safe in their frame. James used to joke that they followed you no matter what angle you looked at them, like that creepy Mona Lisa myth, except friendly. Do they wish they could've protected the water lilies?
“Our friend is meticulous Mr. Potter,” Remus interrupts his thoughts from behind him, voice clipped, sarcasm lacing the word like barbed wire.
“Please, call me Sirius.” He doesn’t bother turning, too intent on absorbing every detail.
Remus hesitates, weighing it for a moment, before finally conceding: “Sirius.”
Sirius bites back the grin threatening to crack through his professional mask.
"He’s thorough," Remus continues, tone shifting back to business. “This is the third time I’ve been called in after one of his jobs. Three hits, and he’s never left a trace. Just an upside-down frame.”
Sirius tilts his head, studying the bench positioned across from Monet’s Haystacks. An uneasy tug in his gut sends a prickle along his spine, like the echo of a memory clawing toward the surface.
He knows exactly what's trying to break through—small hands pointing at painted wheat, a voice that isn't his making up stories—He slams the mental door shut before it can fully wrap its tendrils around him. Not that memory. Not now. Not here.
“Maybe,” he murmurs.
He crouches beside the bench, gloved fingertips sliding over the smooth wooden slats. Carefully, he feels along the underside until his fingers catch on a faint scratch, as if something sharp scraped against the wood. He files that detail away for later.
“Have you taken a look at the CCTV yet, Remus?”
“Agent Lupin,” Remus corrects crisply, folding his arms across his chest. “And we were just about to.”
Sirius glances up, his mouth curving into a playful half-smile. “Come on, Remus,” he teases, cheekily drawing out the name. “We’re going to be working together. We might as well be on a first-name basis.”
Remus’s jaw flexes. “I’ll stick with Agent Lupin, Sirius.” He shoots back, though Sirius doesn’t miss the faint twitch of a smirk.
Oh, he’s got bite. Sirius might like him even more for it.
“Pity. Remus rolls off the tongue so nicely.” The air between them crackles for a beat as their gazes lock. Sirius is certain the man’s picked up on the innuendo.
Remus arches an eyebrow, voice dry as dust. “Are you finished here, or were you planning to commune with the ghosts of the impressionists?”
"Oh, if only." Sirius flashes a grin. “Lead the way.”
***
Remus's brows pinch together as he studies the screens. “Show us the feed from Gallery 819, starting just before the theft.”
A young guy in a Met Security uniform starts scrubbing through footage. The glare of the monitors bathes the room in pale, bluish light, illuminating the faint network of scars crisscrossing Remus’s cheeks and jaw. It’s a detail Sirius hadn’t fully noticed until now.
Sirius’s eyes narrow, locking on the screen.
“Wait. Pause,” Sirius says sharply, leaning closer.
Remus leans in as well. Sirius suddenly finds himself hyperaware of the man’s proximity, catching a blend of scents: coffee, tobacco, cedarwood and just the faintest hint of chocolate.
“What’s that?” They say in unison.
They point simultaneously toward a dark rectangle under one of the benches. The same bench Sirius noticed with the scratch.
The tech squints. “Uh…a bench leg?”
“All the benches have two legs,” Remus states flatly.
"Oh..." Realisation dawns on Sirius. “That’s how he did it!” He exclaims, the earlier thrum sparking into electricity now. “There was a scratch on the bench, like something scraped against the wood. Our thief comes in posing as a tourist, drops off a briefcase—" his hand sweeps down, "—designed to slot underneath the bench and look like a third leg. When he comes back, he slides out the briefcase," he reverses the gesture, pulling out an imaginary briefcase, "slips the painting inside, and walks out the service exit like it’s nothing.”
He's pacing—he can't help it when his mind races like this—gesturing animatedly. “And this guy’s no amateur. He loops the cameras every time, right? Either he’s a tech genius himself, or he’s got a partner who is. Plus, removing those frames without damaging the painting takes precision and time. Enough time to even hang a ten-pound frame upside down as a signature. Brilliant. This guy’s bloody brilliant!”
Remus frowns. “Please tell me you’re not admiring a criminal right now.”
Sirius waves him off. “I’m admiring the craftsmanship,” he retorts. “Besides, I’m invested now. Whoever pulled this off has style. And balls. I mean, a Trojan Horse? Who thinks of something like that?”
Remus rolls his eyes. “Wonderful. A thief and a showoff.”
“The best kind,” Sirius beams at him before nodding at the tech. “Okay. Rewind to before the extra leg shows up.”
Remus shoots him a bemused look. “Are you conducting this investigation now?”
Sirius lifts his brows innocently. “You’re telling me you weren’t going to ask the same thing?”
Remus huffs. “Next thing I know, you’ll be carrying a badge.”
“I’d look fantastic with a badge,” Sirius winks. "Special Agent Potter has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"
Remus sighs, shaking his head, and redirects his attention to the tech scrolling back until the timestamp hits early morning.
“There!” Sirius jabs a finger at the screen. The video freezes on the back of a man slipping a briefcase under the bench with a swift flick of his foot.
Sirius leans closer to the monitor, staring hard. A fleeting shiver passes through him, a split-second of something unnamed, gone almost before he registers it.
Remus glances at him. “What?”
Sirius shakes his head quickly. “Nothing. Thought I…saw something. Never mind.” He forces a half-smile. “Anyway, that’s your guy. Rewind a bit further?”
Sirius can feel the weight of Remus’s gaze lingering on him as the footage rolls back. They watch the man settle onto the bench across from Monet’s Haystacks, striking up casual conversation with a security guard. He positions himself precisely to avoid the cameras' direct sightlines.
“He knows the blind spots,” Sirius murmurs.
Remus turns to Ms. Pantsuit. “Diana. Find out who that guard is and get a statement. See if he knows anything.”
Remus pauses before adding, “And pull the security logs from the theft window too. A badge might’ve been cloned or lifted.”
Diana nods briskly. “On it.”
***
It’s Sunday morning when Remus John Lupin walks into the FBI’s New York Field Office. The thing about working for the FBI is that there are no weekends off. The bullpen is electrified in the wake of the stolen Monet, with phones ringing, agents slugging back their second coffees of the day, and news anchors in the background looping the same footage of the empty frame. Everywhere he goes he sees that damn upturned rectangle glaring at him. It’s like it’s mocking him.
He turns into his office to see Diana perched on his desk, looking thoroughly at home.
“Really?” Remus raises an eyebrow, as he rounds the desk and sinks into his chair.
“I got tired of standing.” She shrugs, dropping two folders onto the desk.
“Everything checks out on ‘Sirius Potter.’” She adopts what might be the worst British accent Remus has ever heard as she says the man’s name. “Parents are Fleamont and Euphemia Potter. He bounced across the UK growing up. Father’s some kind of businessman, and mom’s a housewife. He’s got a degree in Art History and he’s listed as an art insurance investigator for the Weasley Group, just like Hollein said.”
Remus scrolls through his inbox. “And?”
Diana lowers her voice. “And it’s too clean. Not squeaky clean, but sanitized. Like someone went in and tidied up the loose ends. Gaps in the digital trail, socials scrubbed, it's all just too pristine. The kind of job you see when someone with serious government clearance runs a wash on a file.”
Remus finally looks up, a crease forming between his brows. “You think he’s intelligence?”
A voice cuts through the hum of the office.
“Awww, Remus…”
Sirius saunters in, and leans against the door frame, hands folding over his heart. His hair is pulled into a half-up ponytail—still damp in places as though he barely had time to dry it—revealing a constellation of silver hoops and studs climbing both ears. He’s traded any pretense of business attire for a battered leather jacket over and open-collared white button up, a hint of a silver chain traces the hollow of his collarbone.
Matching silver rings glint on his black-tipped fingers as he pushes a curl off his cheek. His scuffed boots look like they’ve covered half the city already. He looks more like he belongs backstage at Madison Square Garden than in a federal office.
Fuck.
He’s infuriatingly attractive
What’s worse is, he knows it too.
“I’m flattered you’re digging into me already,” Sirius says, eyes twinkling. “I don’t usually earn that level of obsession until date two.”
Remus tries—and fails—not to notice the dimple that flashes when Sirius grins. Diana doesn’t even bother pretending like they weren’t just talking about him.
“Speak of the devil,” she says dryly.
“Are you flirting with me?” Sirius jokes, as he pushes off the doorframe.
“Don’t flatter yourself, Potter. You’re not my type.”
“Oh? And pray tell, what is your type?”
She leans forward, lowering her voice to a sultry whisper. “Someone with a little less testosterone.” She winks, lips quirking.
Sirius raises a fist in solidarity. “Fair enough.”
He turns to Remus, tilting his head, curls brushing his cheek. “So. Find what you were looking for? Hope I looked good.”
“Too good, actually,” Diana says, flicking her gaze over him like she’s still suspicious.
Remus sighs sharply, standing from his seat. He keeps his tone brisk, hoping it’ll disguise the heat prickling at the back of his neck. “Let’s focus, shall we? We’ve got enough mysteries without adding you to the list.”
Sirius only smirks, as though he can sense every cord of tension winding inside Remus, eager to pull at each and every one. Before he can retort with what Remus can only assume was going to be another clever remark, a junior agent bursts into the room waving a tablet.
“Agent Lupin! You’re gonna wanna see this.”
He spins the screen around. Live news footage shows police swarming the Museum of Modern Art.
“…a second heist has struck the art world, and our city. This time, the Museum of Modern Art. Sources say security footage was tampered with and a painting stolen under nearly identical circumstances to the theft at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, just a day ago, leaving nothing but an upside-down frame…”
“No fucking way,” Diana mutters grabbing the tablet.
Sirius lets out a low whistle. “Told you this guy’s ballsy.”
Remus glares as Sirius lifts his hands in surrender.
“This makes no sense.” Remus shakes his head. “We’re going there. Now.”
“Oi! I’m coming with,” Sirius says, stepping closer, his scent—leather, cigarettes, brown sugar, and something he can’t quite place, but finds utterly intoxicating—curls into Remus’s senses.
“Sirius, respectfully—”
“Respectfully,” Sirius interjects, his tone sounding anything but. “I’ve got more skin in this than either of you. And you heard Diana. You need my expertise.”
Remus rubs at his temple. He doesn’t have the time for this. Or for how distracting Sirius is. He has a job to do. “Fine. But stay out of the way.”
“Cross my heart.” He mimes a crossing gesture over his chest for good measure. “I can behave.”
Somehow, Remus highly doubts that.
***
Across the city, Regulus sits rigid in the glow of the television casting long shadows on the walls and blackout curtains.
“…under nearly identical circumstances to the theft at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, a day ago, leaving nothing but an upside-down frame…”
The news anchor’s voice echoes through the unfurnished apartment. Regulus barely hears it. He’s snapped out of his trance by the feeling of his phone buzzing.
Lucius Malfoy flashes across the screen. No doubt he’s seen the news. Regulus stares at the screen for a breath before swiping to answer.
“It wasn’t me,” he says, foregoing any pleasantries.
A pause.
“Then find who’s responsible. Or it’s your head.”
Regulus lets out a heavy breath after the call disconnects. He glances back at the TV, where the news anchor reports leaked images from the scene. They confirm that the stolen painting was René Magritte’s The Lovers, leaving only the inverted frame.
He narrows his eyes at the screen. The frame is tilted just slightly. To most, it would look like whoever stole the painting was in a rush. Regulus knows better. He quickly opens his laptop, pulling up images from the exhibit.
Remus enters the gallery with Diana and Sirius following close behind.
“He’d never hit two places in the same city, not back-to-back like this,” he says, his voice tight. “Too much heat. No way he did this.”
Sirius drifts closer, hands in his pocket as he surveys the room. “You think it’s a copycat?”
Diana lets out a snort, crossing her arms. “As if one wasn’t enough.”
Remus doesn’t reply. He stands staring at the vacant spot on the wall, eyes fixed on the brown frame.
“The frame’s off,” he murmurs, brows knitting together as he takes a step back.
“Guy could’ve been in a hurry,” Diana offers, though even she sounds unconvinced.
“No,” Remus shakes his head firmly. “This guy’s too careful for that.” His eyes track the subtle diagonal tilt of the frame until they land on the exhibition label mounted high on the wall.
Regulus expands an image from the museum’s website, zooming into the label in the top left corner of the wall.
Paris: 1920s - 1930s
Paris.